


James Fitzjames, the Gentleman Swindler’s Magical Hour of Tomfoolery

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Attempt at Humor, Barebacking, Genderqueer James Fitzjames, Good Ol' Anal Sex, Holidays, Ice But Make It Sexy, Magician James Fitzjames, Manhandling, Marking, Non-binary character, Oh to be vulnerable around each other, Other, Praise Kink, Sensation Play, Service Top Francis Crozier, Sexual Tension, Teacher Francis Crozier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21899920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Still recovering from their breakup, Francis agrees to accompany Sophia to a magic show. James Fitzjames is possibly the most pompous and obnoxious magician in existence; yet Francis cannot take his eyes off him.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 77
Kudos: 162





	James Fitzjames, the Gentleman Swindler’s Magical Hour of Tomfoolery

**Author's Note:**

> **Content warnings** : exhibitionist fantasies / recovering from alcoholism / unprotected sex (negotiated) / biting (negotiated)

**Thomas Blanky** : dont do it

 **Francis Crozier** : Too late.

 **Thomas Blanky** : ffs

 **Thomas Blanky** : why

 **Francis Crozier** : I got to know if there’s still a spark.

 **Thomas Blanky** : there’ll be a spark alright

 **Thomas Blanky** : inferno

 **Thomas Blanky** : you’ll get burned frank

 **Francis Crozier** : I think I’m already in London

 **Thomas Blanky** : u THINK

When Thomas got to the capslock stage, it was time to pocket the battered old Huawei. He had a right to be furious at Francis: he was here, after all—on Argyll Street, in the middle of December, twenty minutes early, willingly submitting himself to a magic show at Palladium, just because Sophia had asked him to come.

 _It’s been a while,_ that’s what her message said. _I want to see you. Is that selfish of me?_

The problem with Sophia—well. Thomas would say there were several problems. Her age—merely twenty-three when she first met Francis, fresh out of college; her chic lifestyle, incompatible with Francis’ sorry salary; her perpetual indecisiveness, which had led to a bewildering on-and-off relationship, several breakups and two refused proposals in the five torrential years they’d been dating. They were decidedly done with dating now. There was a mutual agreement to move on.

And Francis had.

He was over it.

He went to Liverpool. Stayed there. Got a little studio apartment. A cat. A job. A beard. Sobered up. Two years, entirely without Sophia, had passed. Without booze, he didn’t even have an excuse to stalk her socials. He didn’t know what she was like now. Thirty: Sophia was thirty. She could be living in London, Melbourne, Hobart or Wellington. Perhaps she was still working for the British Museum, or maybe had her own art gallery by now. She would be in pictures, smiling at Mrs. Franklin’s side on a fundraiser for female prisons, a new school founded, a church erected.

It’s hard to say goodbye, when you’re still in love. But they both had known it was time. He kept returning to the memory of it: it had been snowing. Sophia had run after him, in her blue dress, barefoot. How he had dropped his luggage to take her into his arms, one last time. The kiss she had demanded. Where it had led. The cab waiting outside, the familiar creak of their old bed. Never to be heard again; her sighs, moans, whispers. The final word, still, that of farewell.

Blanky had called the recounted memory a “fine piece of melodrama” and Francis had refused to talk to him for a week.

He could see now what a fool he had been. What a fool for her. And still: she only had to whistle and he came running like a good old dog, didn’t he?

But it was different.

It was—fate.

He had to see if it was fate.

Sophia was fashionably late. It gave Francis plenty of time to stomp his feet, regret taking his fancy coat (the navy one) instead of his sensible parka (ugly, but warm), eye the Costa down the street (but, no: not even an espresso, the train ticket alone blew a hole in his budget) and practice what he would say. Option A: God, I’ve missed you. Option B: Hello, stranger. It would depend on the circumstances. He’d know, when he saw her again. Everything would fall back into space. All those shattered pieces of him. He’d know if he was finally free; really free; or if he should try, just one final, final time—

And he also had a magic show to survive.

That was Sophia’s idea of entertainment, some gaudy, fancy West End thing, when London had so much more to offer. They’d always disagreed on that. _James Fitzjames, the Gentleman Swindler’s Magical Hour of Tomfoolery_ sounded like it was specially designed to test Francis’ limits. He’d been vaguely aware of the existence of Fitzjames, the same way one had to accept they shared a planet with David Copperfield or Criss Angel. Fitzjames was a big name in magic, although it baffled Francis how or why would anyone get paid for reproducing the same old, tired tricks whose explanation anyone could just fucking google. The whole business was embarrassing and silly, and the more people he saw line up for the queue, the more he dreaded what he agreed to do just to see the woman he used to love, glance at her once and let the thud of his heart decide if they were meant to be, wait for it to skip a beat or go on beating indifferently.

He was so absorbed staring at the gates he hardly noticed the gentle tap on his shoulder, then the awkward little “Hey?” He turned to Sophia, thinking of her and not seeing her.

She could’ve been a stranger.

“You’ve changed your hair,” Francis said. That wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t like any of the things he was meant to say. He couldn’t have picked a more banal opening.

Sophia touched her hair, self-conscious: it was a bobcut, just long enough to frame her flushed face.

“You don’t like it?” she asked, as if it _mattered—_ as if Francis’ input or preference of her appearance would change a damn—

He got hold of himself.

“Didn’t say that. It’s cute. Hello.”

“Hey,” Sophia repeated, breathless, and tucked her hair behind an ear. Didn’t mention the beard. “Sorry I’m late.”

They didn’t move. Stood there on this elegant street in the heart of the city, leading towards endless possibilities, leading home and away, with not a thing to say, frozen in the embarrassment of whether a hug or a handshake would be appropriate. Francis had no chance to examine his emotions: he was overcome with an acute sense of awkwardness, knowing full well he shouldn’t have come, that he was an idiot for spending three hours on a train just to lay eyes on Sophia again, because what was there to be looked at? She had a new haircut, and a new peacoat, and new shoes, a familiar face with a foreign expression—uncertain, tentative—a nervous smile on her lips. He watched her fret with her gloved hands, and thought, _you shouldn’t have come, Sophia, I can no longer make you happy, I can no longer put you at ease, I can’t do it—_

“So,” he heard himself say, too loud, “is this Fitzjames fellow any good?”

“Oh, you’ll love him,” Sophia said, shoulders dropping with relief for the change of topic, that they no longer had to figure out greetings, because it was too late—she turned to the theatre, and pointed, “Have you seen the posters?”

Francis had twenty-five minutes to stare at them at subzero temperatures.

“Looks fun,” he said.

They showed the silhouette of a tall man in a tophat, arms raised, a frenzied audience and sparkles everywhere. The only thing making it remotely interesting was that the man appeared to be wearing stiletto boots, but _that_ wouldn’t rock Soho for sure.

“I’ve been dying to see it,” Sophia said, beelining for the queue. Francis followed, shoulders up, head down. She was still rubbing her hands together. Maybe the delicate black gloves were too thin; he felt the urge to take her hands, breathe on them. But was it an urge, or simply habit? The knowledge that he would’ve done it, were they together still? Done without asking? Now he didn’t even think to offer his own mitts, which were chosen carefully and hidden with tact, safe from the sharp eye of the elite who were trampling on each other’s heels to go see a _stage magician_.

What society had come to.

What his love had come to.

He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop; he expected some kind of reaction when Sophia got his arm to guide him inside, steered him towards the cloakroom. He noted, dully, when Sophia shed her coat, that she was pretty. She was wearing some pale rose wrap dress, her watch, shoes, jewellery all matching, but she’d always been a woman of good (expensive) taste, except when it came to her apparent fascination with magicians.

She got a brochure for Francis. He pocketed it without one look at it.

“I thought magicians performed in hotel lobbies,” he noted as they entered the auditorium, all red velvet and gold accents, its Georgian beauty preserved fully. Two thousand seats: two thousand people wanted to see somebody who called himself James _Fitzjames_.

“Oh, don’t start,” Sophia said. She wasn’t irked. Never was. She had a way of expressing her disapproval with such grace you couldn’t help but feel guilty; chided like a child—and Francis noted with some faint interest that it wasn’t working anymore, that he didn’t feel bad for grumbling. He had spent the last two years contently grumpy. He was to carry on, as grouchy as one could be. He didn’t even hide the wince when he realised that their tickets were for the first row, which was already filled, so everybody had to stand up to let them in.

Sophia smoothed her dress down before sitting; Francis just collapsed into his seat. It was his second best suit. He didn’t want to seem overeager. It was grey tweed. Sensible. Most of his ties were gifts from Sophia. He had chosen one that wasn’t. He’d been wondering if he’d regret it—not signalling interest in any way.

He caught a whiff of a well-known scent, and smiled to himself. There it was: Chanel no. 5. Sophia was one of the few women who could really _wear it_. Always classy. Always, a little bit—maybe—could it be true, that she’s always been a bit, well, plain? The evident choice in perfumes. The evident choice in cars. The evident choice in fiancés. Expensive, elegant, rich.

He shouldn’t resent her for her money. Not any more than she resented him for his lack of it.

Problem was, she resented him for it a fair deal.

She just couldn’t get it. _Why don’t you make more money_ , she used to say. _You could do it. You’re so clever, a King’s College graduate. Why don’t you have more ambition, why don’t you—_

Still.

He used to like the perfume. Loved to smell it on the pillow, on his clothes.

It’s just—maybe—it’s just that now he preferred—oakwood, earth notes, tobacco and a hint of pepper.

Something less feminine.

Yet he stirred when Sophia leant in; when she whispered, urgently, “Could we grab a coffee after this? I wanna know how you’ve been. I’m _so_ sorry I was late.”

“It’s okay, I—” Francis thought of something to say. The sight of her knees arrested his speech. Her knees, of all things. She sat with her ankles crossed, knees tilted towards him. She always had such an elegant way of sitting. “I’m managing,” he forced out.

Sophia represented more than herself. He knew that. He also knew that it wasn’t fair. Sophia was femininity itself; everything he was attracted to in her sex—and he loved men—loved other genders—he could just never find anybody, anybody else who was like her, straight out of a daydream. Who made him feel so silly, a lump in his throat, nervous giggles—till the end, he’d been so nervous around her, and he thought it’d do him good, how much he wanted to impress.

 _That’s not love,_ Blanky said. _That’s infatuation. Love should put you at ease, you know. Love—that’s natural_. _Elemental. That’s why it hits you like a lighting strike, huh?_

“How are—” Francis started, and was rudely interrupted by loud chiming.

 _“Dundy_ ,” a voice droned from a recording. “ _Dundy, tell them to switch off their bloody phones.”_

The audience cheered, even though the stage was empty. That must’ve been Fitzjames’ voice—deep, soft. A good voice for theatre.

“ _Nobody’s gonna switch off their phones,_ ” Dundy replied, followed by laughter.

Francis frowned. “Am I supposed to know who this Dundy guy is?” he whispered to Sophia.

“His assistant,” she said, clapping in earnest and grinning.

It wasn’t funny.

It just wasn’t fucking funny.

_“Tell them to mute their phones, then.”_

_“Can they take pictures?”_

_“What?”_

_“They’ll want to know if they can take pictures, Mx. Fitzjames.”_

_“Dundy, I’ll be fucking offended if they don’t take pictures.”_

_“Recordings?”_

_“With their shitty phones? No way.”_

_“Shall we begin?”_

_“In a minute, can’t you see I’m still naked?_ ”

Roaring laughter followed. Francis clapped, confused. The stage was set for a music hall comedy, save for the giant screen that only showed an animated version of the poster, with the sparks glittering and Fitzjames’ name being written out in ink. Music was heard: heavy bass and drums.

“Is he a magician, a stand-up comedian or a rockstar?” he muttered to Sophia.

“Mm, all three, now that you mention it. He’s amazing. You’ve really never seen—?”

Someone had the audacity to shush them. Nothing was even happening yet. The music got deeper, sexier, and Francis added another regret to the pile of regrets that had been heavily accumulating since the day Sophia messaged him. (The day before yesterday.) He owed an apology to Blanky. Or ten. _You were right. It wasn’t worth it. There was a time I would’ve crossed fire and the seven seas for her; but I don’t know if even when I loved her best I would’ve suffered—_

The curtains parted and lights flooded the stage as a silver-haired man sauntered in, wearing a red velvet cloak. He may or may not have been Fitzjames. An underwhelming entrance, in any case—although the theatre at large disagreed with Francis: there were whistles and _cheers_.

“Ladies!” the showman shouted in the exact style and manner of an auctioneer. “Gentlemen! Others! How nice of you to come! How very, very nice. It’s my pleasure—no, it’s my joy—no, it’s my job to give you—the one—the only—the singular magician—whose ability goes far beyond being single. The man, the woman, the recently-came-out-as-genderqueer-person. _He_. Him. The one the Guardian called the ‘best entertainer on West End,’ after we bribed them. The legend. The myth. The dirty fantasy. The Amazon special. Also available on Hulu. Hashtag def sponsd. Please give three cheers and a deafening hooray to Mx—James—Fitzjames!”

The auditorium exploded with applause. Francis covered his ears, hoping Sophia wouldn’t notice. The music reached a crescendo, the lights flashed, the screen burst into a whirl of glitter. It was a lot. Apparently-Dundy kept pointing his cane at nothing.

“Oh,” he said. “Silly me.” He took off his cape, feigning embarrassment. Threw it in the air with unnecessary flourish.

It fell down on something rectangle-shaped. To the surprise of only those who were lucky enough never to suffer through a magic act, a glass cage was revealed. There was nothing inside of it—then, at once, it filled with white smoke—and a large hand landed on the glass from inside.

“So that was the same trick twice,” Francis remarked. Sophia swatted at his arm, good-humoured. She looked—entertained. By god, they were hardly three minutes in, and she was already loving it.

How could anybody—

Francis bit his lips, and obediently focused on the stage. He’d missed the moment when Fitzjames was revealed in his entirety. He would’ve been—impressive, if he wasn’t doing some godawful miming. He was tall, dark and handsome; his hair rather spectacular. So was his defined stomach. Francis would’ve had more respect for him if he didn’t come on stage half-naked. That was just cheap, for someone as good-looking as him.

The glass tank spun around, and started filling with water. It took some time. Francis braced himself to watch Fitzjames escape by the means of basic-as-hell stage magic. Apparently, his iron boots were fixed to one wall, and he was locked into them. As if. The tank kept rotating and Fitzjames pretended to desperately cry for help. He and Dundy engaged in an exhausting routine where Dundy kept running out for props—a rubber duck, a shower cap—to the general merriment of the spectators, as James angrily gesticulated at him and his last bubbles escaped his lips. The way he arched back in agony was almost convincing; his hair swam around his face in a dark halo.

Dundy returned with a dressing gown, and threw it over the tank. The lights went out for a blink; when they came back, they revealed James standing on stage, wearing the ornate silk gown, arms held up in triumph.

More applause followed. Some were already hoarse with shouting.

Francis was peer-pressured to join, even though he didn’t think it was earned. But well—what the hell. There was some showmanship to it, he was willing to give Fitzjames that.

The theatrics of Fitzjames gloomily staggering frontstage, dragging puddles of water behind him, his hair dripping was a bit too much. Especially the part where he sat down, facing the audience.

“I didn’t always want to be a magician,” he said. He seemed earnest. Francis knew he wasn’t. “It’s a job where you can drown,” Fitzjames went on, gesticulating at the tank. There was some snickering. Fitzjames ran his fingers through his hair in a ridiculously calculated manner. He had quite—arresting features. Two deep lines framing thin lips, a straight, sharp nose. Cheekbones that could cut glass. Maybe that was the key to the trick.

“I mean,” Fitzjames went on, “I wasn’t in any real danger back there. Nothing you’ll see here is dangerous. I want you to know that. I didn’t become a magician to spook you.” He rubbed his nose. “Nah. I’m here to entertain. Best damn show of your lives. How about that?” He combed his hair back again, then made a sudden gesture—it looked like he was throwing water drops on the first rows, but they landed as crystals—those tiny Swarovski ones. Francis’ neighbour caught one.

“Shit, it’s real,” she whispered. “It’s real!”

Fitzjames got to his feet. He walked back centre stage, hips swaying to the slow music, arms outstretched. Francis kept glancing at the little crystal trembling on his neighbour’s fingers. Sure, there was no obvious way to hide them, but it was clearly sleight of hand. It could’ve been as easy as a little pouch affixed to the collar of the gown. Maybe Fitzjames touched it, and Francis was just too busy staring at his face.

“Dundy!” Fitzjames called. Dundy rolled in a gilded paravant, grumbling complaints. Fitzjames twirled behind it: the music shifted to a burlesque jingle as he raised his hands high up, above the paravant, and slowly caressed down his arm. He did have quite big hands. Francis wondered if that made card tricks easier—he could probably palm just about anything. Francis could think of a few things for him to palm. But he wasn’t going to be attracted to a magician.

Fitzjames might have heard his thoughts and decided to meet the challenge: he stepped out from behind the screen in a blood red gown, collarbones exposed—he was simply gorgeous; but Dundy shook his head, tutting. Fitzjames reappeared in a suit—much faster than it was probable to put on one. Francis figured out the trick by the third outfit, but the act just kept happening, James shedding and putting on clothes in an increased frenzy, within seconds, then within a blink, until the audience was screaming through the blast of music.

“Multiple outfits worn under each other,” Francis whispered to Sophia. “Notice how they keep getting more close-fitting.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Sophia pouted.

“Why?” Francis teased. “You thought it was magic?”

“I _like_ that it’s a trick—oh, that’s quite something.”

Francis glanced back at the stage, then did a double-take. Fitzjames was wearing what could only be described as a Victorian riding attire from a wet dream. He pulled on the stiletto boots from the poster to general applause, which were knee-high, laced, and made of vinyl.

Francis refused to let it affect him in any way.

He stayed stoic when Dundy handed a riding crop to Fitzjames, who swatted at his own arse with it.

“Left my magic wand at home,” he said with a wink. “Let’s see if I can make it work. One, two, three.”

* * *

Things vanished, reappeared, levitated. There was a live cheetah, produced from a tablecloth along with a confused zookeeper. A smashed teacup came back together. Candles floated in the air. There was a horrifying amount of glitter. Fitzjames walked through a mirror. Dundy survived being run through with swords. A volunteer had the distinct pleasure of being cut in half by an immodestly placed chainsaw. Somebody’s phone chimed, so Fitzjames confiscated it, put it in a solid block of ice, smashed it with a hammer, then handed it back to its owner unharmed. He guessed lockscreen codes and produced his prediction written out by hand. Broke a chair. That might’ve been an accident. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” Fitzjames said. “Our Magical Hour of Tomfoolery is coming to an end, and we hadn’t had a single card trick.”

“Appalling,” Dundy noted, still picking feathers from his hair after being the target of Fitzjames’ take on a tophat-and-doves trick.

“You’ll go home and tell your dog you went to a magic show with no card tricks,” Fitzjames mused as he walked to front stage, the riding crop tucked under his arm. He marched up and down like a general in questionable footwear, surveying the audience. His eyes met Francis’ for a moment. “I can’t have that. Maybe you think I can’t even do card tricks.”

“No!” some overeager prick shouted.

Fitzjames blew him a kiss, then resumed pacing. “After all this foreplay,” he mused, “it must be the world’s sexiest card trick, or you’ll call me a fake. Do we have a pack of cards, Dundy?”

“Yes, Mx. Fitzjames.”

“Sealed?”

Dundy produced the deck from his waistcoat’s pocket. “We always use protection.”

“Then all I need is a volunteer,” Fitzjames announced, and turned on his heels. Pointed the riding crop at Francis. “Sir. Are you willing to join me for a sensual card trick?”

Francis didn’t know what to say. Sophia shrieked in delight and clapped.

Fitzjames crouched down and leant closer, as if in an intimate whisper, but the entire auditorium could hear as he said, “At this point, I should think you know what to expect.”

Francis had the option to refuse. He could’ve just suggested Sophia as tribute, or his neighbour, or any of Fitzjames’ stupid fans in the theatre—but as a skeptic, he felt it was his duty to get to his feet. To bear the applause as he nodded his consent, straightened his jacket.

He would watch Fitzjames like a hawk. A vulture. He’d descend upon the slightest sign of weakness, call him out in front of the entire Palladium; laugh at him if he tried to force a pick, change his mind about his card last minute, do anything to—

He didn’t quite know what was there to be mad about. Fitzjames was obnoxious, but gorgeous; vain, but entertaining; not more in love with James Fucking Fitzjames than anybody else present. Maybe, possibly, including Francis himself. He did feel a bit—dainty, when Fitzjames offered his hand to help him up the steps.

There was something magnifying in his touch. It was hard to believe that a person who did all those weird crap on stage was actually real, not just an odd projection or the result of mass hallucination. He didn’t look much different up close. Francis could make out the sweat on his forehead, and it was more evident that he was exhausted and out of breath. The surprise was this: he smelled nice. Oakwood and earth notes and—all that, all the better with the hint of clean sweat.

Fitzjames offered a handshake and Francis nearly missed it. He had a good grip.

“May I ask your name?”

“Francis.”

“Now, Frauncis, thank you for joining me on stage. Please speak up so everybody can hear you. We’re doing this trick without microphones. If you’d be so kind to take off mine.”

Francis had half the mind to correct his pronunciation, but he wasn’t going to be a bad sport—not right away; not in front of Sophia. He unclipped Fitzjames’ microphone, which was attached to his collar. He nearly had to go to his tiptoes. He suspected that without the heels, they’d be of equal height.

“If you could please make sure that I have no listening devices in my ears,” Fitzjames said, gathering up his hair. There was something in that gesture—how his throat flashed as he pulled his curled locks back—that made Francis very uncomfortable. How noticable would it be on stage if he happened to be—affected? It didn’t help that Fitzjames looked down, surprisingly demure, and Francis even caught him chewing on his lips. Was it part of the act? He couldn’t tell—but Fitzjames almost seemed nervous, which was too at odds with his character.

“No listening devices,” Francis said. He never thought his life would lead to staring into somebody’s ears.

“I could be wearing a wire though,” Fitzjames suggested. His show persona was back, but something in his eyes lingered. Hazel eyes. Francis took them to be brown so far. But there: a hint of green. A hint of anxiety. It vanished with the smile Fitzjames flashed: he grabbed at his outfit, and tore it off in one go.

Stripper trousers.

Of fucking course.

All that remained was a collar, cuffs, underwear and the boots.

“Please check if the cards are genuine,” Fitzjames asked. Francis tried not to look at him without being obvious about it. It was his responsibility to keep watch; what a cheap trick, to distract from it with base seduction. Did Francis look ridiculous, shuffling the cards? The lights were very strong. He must’ve looked pale as a ghost, his greying hair evident, the creases on his suit standing out, his paunch—not someone Fitzjames would strip for, not at all. Was that why he was chosen? Because Fitzjames thought it’d look _funny_ to use him for a sensual trick?

 _The beard is okay_ , he thought. _I was told the beard—_

“Cards alright,” he grumbled. Offered the deck back to Fitzjames, who didn’t take it.

“Now, Francis, you strike me as a skeptic,” Fitzjames said. “Is that correct?”

Well. If he looked bad on stage, he must’ve looked worse back in his chair. Maybe Fitzjames had noticed the faces he’s been making. Francis didn’t think he’d be watching. He felt sorry for it; the show was gaudy, but Fitzjames must’ve spent so much time practicing—

“I think I solved most of your tricks,” he couldn’t help but say.

Fitzjames arched his eyebrows, amused. “Well, then! As a man of scientific principles, I think you’re suspicious of the fact that I left _some_ clothes on, and your cynicism is warranted. They could conceal anything.”

Francis just made a face in answer. Surely, Fitzjames wasn’t going to—

He heard wheels turning. Dundy rolled a smaller paravant on stage, just big enough to protect what remained of Fitzjames’ dignity between his hips and knees.

“Shall I ask Dundy to confirm to the audience that I’m taking off my underwear, or will you be a darling?” Fitzjames asked as he tossed the collar and the cuffs away. Francis made a show of peeking behind the paravant.

James was, indeed, getting his briefs off.

There was nothing beneath them.

No clothing, anyway.

The cock was—noticeable. Francis kept his face straight. Nothing else about him was straight.

Fitzjames took off his boots and sent them away with Dundy. Francis was still watching, because he wasn’t told to look away, and because a good look at Fitzjames’ backside was warranted.

Good grief.

Francis really needed to get laid.

It wouldn’t be fair to—think about this, later. Fitzjames was a professional. A performer.

“I told you it was going to be a sensual act,” Fitzjames said, butt-naked. He looked comfortable. No silly jokes or awkward laughter. Just a person wearing their skin. A person with legs for days, even without heels. “It’s a sensual act,” Fitzjames went on, “because I shall use my senses to tell which card you’ll pick. My sense of taste, in fact. I will close my eyes—if you would be so kind as to tape them shut. Use the safety seals on the deck.” 

Francis peeled them off as instructed, then affixed Fitzjames’ eyes. It was the oddest thing—he couldn’t remember the last time he touched somebody so intimately. Francis hasn’t noticed before that Fitzjames had such lush eyelashes.

He was so fucked.

He waved his hand before Fitzjames’ face just in case. The audience chuckled. Maybe he wasn’t doing so bad. Maybe he wasn’t such a lousy volunteer.

“Please shuffle the cards,” Fitzjames told him, “pick one, and show it to the audience.”

Francis was a good shuffler. He wasn’t born Irish to be bad at poker. He made sure to make some misleading sounds, although he was quite certain Fitzjames wouldn’t be able to rely on hearing for this trick. He chose a card at random, then changed his mind, and picked the one next to it—the king of hearts. He presented it to the audience, with his back to Fitzjames.

Sophia was beaming.

Francis had quite forgotten she was there.

He put the card against his chest, face down, hiding it from view.

“Have you shown your card to the audience?” Fitzjames asked.

“Yes.”

“Anyone willing to tell me which one it was? Oh, don’t _laugh_ , you traitors. Francis, I’ll stick out my tongue now, and I’ll ask you to tap the card against it, just the tip.”

Francis wasn’t blushing. He kept the card concealed as he approached Fitzjames, and held it up just for long enough that he could lick at it. He had a long, pink tongue. Cute teeth. Scrunched his nose rather adorably.

“I can tell that the card is red, but not much else. Give us another taste?”

Francis obeyed, fingers slightly shaking as Fitzjames hummed, the sound deep in his throat like a purr.

“Mm. Heart. How sweet. But what’s the value?”

Francis let him lap at the card again. The audience was holding their breath; there were gasps, whispers; they didn’t matter. Francis focused on Fitzjames with every atom of his being. Fitzjames’ tongue accidentally brushed against his thumb.

“Your card is the king of hearts,” he announced.

The auditorium erupted in shocked laughter; claps followed as Francis stood, stunned. Fitzjames removed the makeshift blindfold, blinked in discomfort, then smiled at Francis—a small smile, just for him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Do you believe in magic now?”

* * *

“Maybe each card is individually flavoured,” Sophia mused as they got their coats back.

“He’d have to memorize fifty-two individual flavours,” Francis argued. “I reckon that the tasting bit is a misdirection.”

“But he _was_ naked, yeah?”

“Pretty naked. Yes.”

“Maybe _that’s_ the misdirection,” Sophia said. “Was there something behind the paravant?”

Francis shook his head. “I checked.”

He realised, too late, that he should’ve offered to help Sophia put her coat on. He was—absorbed in thought. His entire body was humming; his skin felt too tight, too hot. He wanted to get out, leave the theatre, but the shock of wintry air was just as unpleasant as the oppressive crowd.

“Yikes, it’s freezing,” Sophia complained. “Come along, let’s grab a coffee.”

Francis followed her blindly. He kept thinking of Fitzjames. Not just the card trick: the entire show was burned into his mind, a blur of sound and colour, Fitzjames in the blood-red dress, the riding attire, and Fitzjames, naked, then the cocktail dress after the cards, before he flew up in the air and vanished.

Sophia held the door open for him. Francis blinked: they were entering Costa Coffee. When Sophia suggested to catch up, Francis supposed they would go to one of their old haunts, Kaffeine, Caravan or Climpson and Sons—not the bloody Costa on the corner.

It didn’t really matter, did it?

“I’ll get us a table,” he murmured, and fled without waiting for her answer, his mud-soaked boots creaking on the floor with a terrible sound.

Sophia called after him, “Black, no sugar?”

“No sugar,” he confirmed. He should’ve felt one way or another about Sophia remembering his usual order; but it wasn’t like it was an achievement—she knew he liked his coffee black, and she brought him to _Costa—_

 _It’s alright,_ he told himself, hovering over two college kids who looked like they were close to finishing. _It’s kind of her to see me at all_.

Was it kindness?

Was it about him, in any way?

_She missed me._

Is _missing_ somebody any evidence of love? Any sort of love? 

(Fitzjames crouched down, the riding crop pointing towards him. _Sir. Are you ready to examine if your emotions are genuine?_ )

The college kids left their fucking tray. Francis just pushed it aside.

Sophia approached gingerly, careful not to spill their drinks, and presented him with a cup of coffee. Countless mornings like this: the only difference, it had been tea; it had been his cup, her cupboard; she’d smile at him; she’d wear her hair long and curled, and she’d be wearing Francis’s shirt, because she loved wearing his shirts to bed, but now she had a coat on, which she didn’t even unbutton, even though it was warm, because she wouldn’t stay for long.

“Ta,” Francis mumbled, and stirred the coffee with the wooden spatula he’d been given, even though there was nothing in his drink to stir, even though he looked so obviously _lost_ doing it, so damn out of place.

“I took some pictures,” Sophia announced after a hearty sip from her gingerbread latte.

Francis frowned at her, not getting her meaning for a second. It was like they no longer spoke the same language. “What? Me on stage?”

Sophia nodded contently. “You were _so_ funny up there!”

“Funny, eh?”

“No, not like that—stop that. You were making those adorable faces—” Sophia bit her lip, and got her iPhone from her satin clutch.

It was a new phone.

A new start. A new memory card.

Francis had to delete the pictures one by one, holidays and long nights, wondering which ones were appropriate to keep. Then he just deleted everything. 

Sophia handed him her phone. The picture was a bit blurry, and Francis was vaguely aware that he was on it, and that he should check if it was a good picture, but he looked at Fitzjames. It was the moment when he looked down and bit his lips. Francis scrolled to the next image, the next. Sophia stopped taking them once Fitzjames was fully naked. He looked better, up close. Much less like a poster boy.

“Could I post them on Insta?”

“If you want.”

“How do I tag you though?”

“I don’t have Instagram.”

Sophia scowled at him, suspicious, and took a long drag of her latte. Once she was out of her drink, she’d be out of an excuse to stay. Francis didn’t mind it; but did he mind not minding it?

“We set up your profile together, old man. Have you deleted the app, or what?”

“I don’t remember.” Francis cleared his throat and fumbled for his phone. He touched the brochure; he’d forgotten about it. He pulled it out with his phone. Goddamnit, but Fitzjames had a good figure.

“God, what was your username,” Sophia muttered, scrolling through her contacts.

Francis glanced at her over the brochure. “You’ve unfollowed me.”

“I did, but—wasn’t it Captain Something? Captain, Captain—”

“I don’t know, you came up with it.” Francis turned his attention to his phone, and flipped through his apps. He had way too many of them. “Yeah, I think I deleted it.”

“No way, you never delete anything. Bet you still have limewire.”

Francis presented the screen as if to prove a point; an argument won. Sophia took a definite sip from her latte, and flicked at the screen expertly with her well-manicured nails. “There. ‘Top apps’ folder.”

“I don’t remember putting it—”

“You put _everything_ in folders. Ta-dah! Captain Grumpy.”

“God,” Francis muttered. He looked the same on his profile picture as he did now: old, haggard. Clean-shaven, yes, but still every inch of the grumpiest _possible_ sea captains after several shipwrecks. The cable-knit sweater didn’t help. Sophia chose the username well. 

“I won’t post them on Insta if you don’t want,” she said, gentle, nearly apologetic. 

“It’s fine. It was—” He stopped. “It was a fun night.”

Sophia peered at him, clearly pleased with herself. “Told you you’d love him,” she said.

“Will you tag him too?”

“Fitzjames?”

“Does he have an Instagram?”

“Of course he does, his stories are everything.”

“I wouldn’t know. All these apps are confusing.”

“Don’t be such a dinosaur, honey.”

An awkward pause followed.

Francis reached for his coffee.

* * *

He walked back to his place alone. Well. His place for tonight. He had no reason to have a flat in London. Given up his teaching position here, which paid better than his job at Liverpool, but Liverpool was a cheaper place to live, and a better place to hide, maybe.

He pressed the buzzer, wondering if he had the right address. Google Maps was a mess.

The door flew open, revealing Jopson in a neat sweater and pressed slacks. Francis still remembered him in his school uniform; he helped Jopson fight for his right to be allowed trousers. They had burned his last skirt together in the schoolyard. Jopson had cried.

“Mr. Crozier! Please come on in, it’s freezing!”

Maybe it was a bit pathetic, to crash a former student’s couch, but he had nowhere else to go, and. Well. There was no point in denying that he’d basically adopted Jopson, long ago—but no: they’d adopted each other.

“Have you eaten?” Jopson asked as he helped his coat off. Francis grumbled something about not being hungry. Jopson put his boots to safety, then headed for the tiny kitchen. “Let’s get you a glass of water, sir,” he noted. “A night out can make us perched, you don’t even notice, and you wake up with a headache.”

Francis didn’t have it in him to refuse this small courtesy. He walked around, silent on his socked feet. He was careful not to disturb anything. The little rental had crates for furniture, crates and boxes everywhere, but also string lights and lush plants and motivational posters—trust Jopson to make a glaring shortage of money look ever so cheerful.

Francis has been avoiding him, recently.

Didn’t want him to see what he’s became. If anybody saw through the act that he was now fine, and settled, that would’ve been Jopson.

There were messages and emails and phone calls, almost every day—and Jopson behaved as if they hadn’t missed anything, as if he hadn’t grown, as if they could just pick up where they left off.

“Drink all of it,” Jopson said, handing him a glass of tapwater. “Slowly.”

Francis obeyed. He saw a shaggy head pop out from a room after his first sip.

“Good evening, Mr. Crozier,” Little said without stepping forward. That brought back memories. His best student, and also the most timid. Francis was pretty sure Little had that very same NASA jumper in year thirteen. The nose piercing was new. Francis raised his glass in greeting.

“How was the show, sir?” Jopson asked, busying himself in the open kitchen.

“Pretty decent.”

Well. There were better words to describe Fitzjames than decent.

“What did you watch, sir?” Little said.

Francis should have convinced at least one of them to stop calling him sir. Grammar school had been—oh hell. Five years ago? Six?

“James Fitzjames’ Magical Mystery Show,” he admitted, proudly misremembering the name. Little’s expression changed: a smile flashed up from its perpetual gloom.

“You went to see Fitzjames?”

“You know him?”

Jopson scoffed. “Don’t ask him that, sir.”

“He made Lord Nelson disappear,” Little recalled in the tone one would remember some heroic act.

“Hasn’t Lord Nelson been dead since quite some time?”

“1805,” Jopson piped in.

“The statue at Trafalgar square,” Little explained, going as far as to gesticulate. He was still leaning against the door frame for moral support. “I’ve only seen videos, but my mate was there—it was mental.”

“His response to Copperfield making the Statue of Liberty vanish, sir,” Jopson added.

“There’s a Reddit rumour that he’d started out as a street magician. He’s not bragging about it, but the evidence is compelling, sir.”

Francis raised an eyebrow in appreciation. Well. He could see that. Fitzjames making his way to the top through nothing but charisma, charm, and maybe a dash of luck. People like him could achieve anything. That wretchedly winsome smile on the face of a stranger Francis could’ve passed on the street, juggling or swallowing swords—would he have stopped to look? Fitzjames had a way of demanding attention. He could’ve just brushed past Francis on the underground, and he would’ve strained his neck to gaze after him.

It wasn’t his fault.

“We still have a couple of episodes left from Penn and Teller,” Jopson proposed. “Would you like to join us, sir? We could binge some before bed. We have nachos.”

Francis refused to tell them how much he despised magic.

* * *

Francis wished he had told them how much he despised magic. Jopson and Little didn’t have a telly, but they did have an old laptop, a projector and a dream. Sitting on pillows atop crates was much more comfortable than Francis originally anticipated; he stuffed his face full of nachos, passed around the dip Jopson had made, and tried to be polite about dividing his attention between his phone and the screen.

 **Francis Crozier** : Didn’t propose to her again.

 **Thomas Blanky** : im genuinely relieved

 **Francis Crozier** : You were right.

 **Francis Crozier** : A mistake was made.

 **Francis Crozier** : I made a mistake.

 **Thomas Blanky** : thats what i like to hear

Francis’ fingers hesitated over the screen. Then he thought, _fuck it._

 **Francis Crozier** : I think I met somebody.

 **Thomas Blanky** : nice

 **Thomas Blanky** : go get em tiger

The magician in the show pulled out cards from his mouth. Francis was not ever going to tell Blanky he meant James fucking Fitzjames. It was ridiculous, in any case. It wasn’t “I met somebody.” It was “for a first time in a while, somebody made me feel something, and it wasn’t Sophia.”

He opened Instagram to look at the photos. Sophia hadn’t posted them yet. He found himself—strangely upset. She would post them, eventually. He just wanted to—what? Relive the memory? It was fresh in his mind—kept playing on repeat—no, he wanted to look at Fitzjames. Just look at him. There was nothing wrong with looking.

He typed in his name. His profile popped up, complete with a blue checkmark and a picture from the poster photoshoot—same outfit, same decor, but his face was visible as he pulled on his white glove with his teeth.

He had an atrocious amount of selfies. Lifestyle pictures. Paid ads. Promos for his show. Half a million hashtags. An incredibly shallow and vain—

He didn’t look that way. Not when Francis was standing close to him.

But he could be wrong about him. Fitzjames could be anything Francis feared him to be: some famous prick, just another celebrity, it wasn’t like Francis was going to wank off to his _personality—_

(It wasn’t like Francis was going to wank off to him, at all. Not while he was a guest, and not back home either, that “woke up like this” shot of Fitzjames in bed be damned.)

Fitzjames might’ve awoken something in him, but he was too old to fall in love with somebody just because he’d seen their dick. Francis didn’t even _like_ people who posted pictures of their food. He was unshakably judgemental of anybody over twenty-one still clubbing. He hated magicians, and he was of the firm opinion that anybody who wrote deep captions to justify a selfie of them meditating on a beach should just be barred from the internet forever.

It didn’t change the fact that Fitzjames was cute as hell.

Quite stunning, in fact.

He didn’t need to be anything more. He didn’t exist to fulfill Francis’ fantasies. Francis liked that Fitzjames was surprisingly polite and considerate in the brief time they interacted; he came to grudgingly like his style, and he was ready to admit that he knew how to entertain. There was no need to cling to these observations, to prove the supposed complexity of Fitzjames, because he was just some bloody magician, and Francis thought he was hot, and that was the end of it.

No romance.

No “I met somebody.”

If only he knew how Fitzjames did that fucking card trick.

* * *

“So this is Ned’s bedroom,” Jopson said, opening the door to a tiny nook with a futon and blocks of books stacked on the floor.

“Won’t he mind?” Francis asked, feeling a bit displaced in his striped pajamas, clutching his toiletry bag as if his life depended on it, freshly washed but smelling like a twenty-something’s misguided shower gel choices.

“He doesn’t sleep here anymore,” Jopson remarked as he self-consciously adjusted his fringe.

Francis peered at him slyly. “Congratulations. He’s a good lad.”

“I think so too, sir.” The smile on his lips melted something in Francis. “If you need me, we’re right next door—make yourself at home.”

Francis tried.

God knows he tried.

He wasn’t used to sleeping so close to the floor. The bedsheets were freshly laundered, and Francis suspected Jopson had even ironed them, but it didn’t help. His mind was too loud—Dundy’s voice stayed with him, announcing trick after trick, and he kept seeing Fitzjames appear, in a wisp of smoke, sauntering down the stage in an evening gown, gathering up his hair, how his neck flashed.

He couldn’t let his thoughts go there.

By half past midnight, he had his phone at hand, scrolling through work emails he already answered, papers he had long since corrected, then opened his browser. Little had said something about Reddit, right?

He found multiple threads related to Fitzjames. The top voted one was about the naked card trick.

 **icemaster** : somebody please tell me how he did it im like super high and its giving me major anxiety why can he taste cards

 **be_gay_do_crimes** : Vibrator up his arse...that is triggered by blue tooth...accomplice in the audience......simple.

 **Xenophon** : For anyone who might be inclined to think there may had been a plant: Mx. Fitzjames had demonstrated the trick to the Magic Castle; they confirmed there was no stooge in the audience, and that Dundy is not involved in the trick in any significant way. Isn’t that exciting? :)

 **lemmesleep** : I think that’s like fascinating about Fitzjames because he’s often underestimated because he performs classic tricks and it’s about the showmanship but he’ss actually a very good magician and he’s very innovative I think

 **Xenophon** : How true! :) It'd take away from the magic if we knew everything, wouldn't it; although the technique is certainly to be admired!

 **lemmesleep** : yeah exactly :)

 **sgt_salmon** : Reckon the cards were doctored.

 **icemaster** : he said in an interview they werent i havent slept since then do you think magic is real

 **Xenophon** : If you're referring to the BuzzFeed interview, he did say the trick wouldn’t have been possible 25 years ago, so that’s a little clue! ;)

 **be_gay_do_crimes** : lol…..I was right…

 **lemmesleep** : Could you send me the article pls? :)

 **Xenophon** : Absolutely! :)

It was infuriating. Francis didn’t know enough about magic to side with anybody’s opinion, or pick up on a clue. He was decidedly not going to research it. He closed the browser, frustrated, then stared at the home screen. Instagram was right there, in the top apps folder. He could just...ask. Send a private message.

_Hello, I’m Francis Crozier. We met tonight: I assisted you in a card trick. You said you thought I was a skeptic, and you were right. As a science teacher, I take special interest…_

No.

_Since I work in the scientific field, I was wondering…_

No.

_I can proudly proclaim that I’m not one of your fans—not a fan of magic in general, but…_

Rude.

_Something bothers me about the trick. Would you…_

_Could you…_

_Help me, can’t stop thinking about…_

_How you…_

_What have you done to me…_

He pulled up the app with a determined tap of his thumb, went straight to Fitzjames’ profile. Located where to send a direct message. Set his jaw, and went for broke.

 **Captain_Grumpy** : Hope you don’t mind me saying this: I think you’re gorgeous.

He hit send before he could have second thoughts. He stared at the screen for a moment, then locked the phone. Dropped it atop a convenient pile of books, face down, and turned away from it bodily. It’s not like Fitzjames would be reading any of his private messages. He must get dozens of them, especially just after a show. Francis just—had to spell it out.

He could forget about it now.

His phone buzzed.

He tensed up.

_What the hell._

But no—no, that wasn’t possible. It would just be a work email. Student parents had no respect for the weekend. He got his phone, chilled, stomach sinking. He’d just turn it off for the evening, it was getting late—

 **JamesFitzJ** : what a coincidence: I think you’re gorgeous too, Francis

—anyway.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Crap,” he said, and sat bolt upright, staring down at the screen in disbelief. Was he dreaming? Was he already asleep—

This was terrible. This was—

Why would Fitzjames reply? How did he have the time? The response came almost right away, how did he—why was he even checking his messages? Did he stay up to reply to fanmail in real time, before they piled up? Did anybody _do_ that?

( _Francis. He remembers me._ )

He should—let this drop. He _would_. No reply. Delete his profile. Delete the app. Get a new phone. It was time.

_What a coincidence..._

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Should he apologise?

Should he—?

 **Captain_Grumpy:** Why are you still up?

There. That was a polite question. Considerate. The topic had been diverted from flirtation.

Except, of course, his mind went straight to the bed selfie. Fitzjames in bed, propped up on his elbows, smiling for the camera. His soft hair all mussed up. No shirt. Not even—

( _Stop right there_.)

—pyjama pants.

(He was wearing them in the photo.)

Not on stage, though.

 **JamesFitzJ** : keyed up. can’t sleep 😔

That was his escape. He should write, _We should both try to sleep. Good night. Thanks for the show, and sorry for the previous message, I’m knackered and my self-control is not at optimal levels_. Something along those lines. Definitely not what he typed next.

 **Captain_Grumpy** : Nobody to sing you to sleep?

That was just—stupid. _Sing_ to sleep? Fucking _sing_?

 **JamesFitzJ** : if you would believe it 😔

 **Captain_Grumpy** : I find that hard to believe.

 _So, Blanky_ , he composed a message in his head. _You couldn't guess what I’m doing_.

 **JamesFitzJ** : I just got home and nobody waited for me with dinner ready. the audacity. ramen it is.

 **JamesFitzJ** : please be assured that I’m eating it in a very attractive manner

 **Captain_Grumpy** : Reckoned that.

 **JamesFitzJ** : fun fact, I also happen to be naked

 **JamesFitzJ** : sad to report it’s because my clothes were gross

 **JamesFitzJ** : I hope it didn’t offend you, btw

 **JamesFitzJ** : the card trick?

 **Captain_Grumpy** : Do you always pick volunteers you fancy?

 **JamesFitzJ** : fuck no

 **JamesFitzJ** : see this is what worries me

 **JamesFitzJ** : I always pick at random

 **JamesFitzJ** : but you should’ve seen your face

 **JamesFitzJ:** I should clarify that I don’t have sex with fans, as a principle

 **Captain_Grumpy:** Lucky me. I’m not a fan.

 **JamesFitzJ** : yeah I could tell that lol

Francis hoped that one day, he might learn the art of subtle flirtation. He felt like a bull in a sexshop. Seeing red. Running straight at the target.

It’s not like this was leading anywhere.

They were just chatting.

This was all innocent teasing between two very tired adults, pointless fun.

 **JamesFitzJ** : who made you come?

 **JamesFitzJ** : ooop that came out wrong

 **JamesFitzJ** : anyway I hardly recognised you without the beard!

 **JamesFitzJ** : it’s a very sexy beard 💖

_Damn it._

**JamesFitzJ** : this whole lumberjack/daddy aesthetic is my weakness so??? hello.

 _Damn_.

 **Captain_Grumpy** : I’m told I look like a marooned sea captain.

 **JamesFitzJ** : oh yeah I can def see that

 **JamesFitzJ** : it’s a good look 🤩💦

 **JamesFitzJ** : promise me you’re not screenshotting this

 **JamesFitzJ** : no one can know about my attraction to grizzly sea captains lol

 **Captain_Grumpy** : It’d be just as embarrassing for me as for you. I’m hitting on a magician, after all.

 **JamesFitzJ** : mmm we love an insult wrapped in reassurance

 **JamesFitzJ** : I was rlly hoping I changed your mind about magic 🥺

 **Captain_Grumpy** : We could say you had me spellbound.

 **JamesFitzJ** : sorry I’m chewing too loudly

 **JamesFitzJ** : couldn’t hear you

 **JamesFitzJ** : come again? 😏

 **Captain_Grumpy** : How do you even type this fast while eating?

 **JamesFitzJ** : come over and I’ll show you lol

 **JamesFitzJ** : nah it’s just magic ✨✨✨

 **JamesFitzJ** : I’m good at using my fingers 😏

 **Captain_Grumpy:** Still haven’t figured out how you did the card trick.

 **JamesFitzJ** : thank god you’re not alone with that lol

 **Captain_Grumpy** : But won’t you tell *me*?

Not like he was—special. But it was fun to pretend that Fitzjames would make an exception just for him; that he had such an effect over him already.

 **JamesFitzJ:** aww I can’t commit that to writing, I’m afraid 😘

This was the point of retreat. He could even make a joke out of it. _Well, goodbye then_. Give Fitzjames a laugh (hopefully, he’d laugh), say a few words, say goodnight, close the app.

Too bad Francis was a stubborn ass.

 **Captain_Grumpy** : Over coffee?

 **JamesFitzJ** : are you asking me for a drink?

 **Captain_Grumpy** : I’m asking if I can get you a coffee.

It wasn’t like Fitzjames would agree to it. Just because he found Francis attractive didn’t mean he’d want to go on a date. He had better choices, surely. Not everybody heard wedding bells as soon as somebody showed the slightest hint of interest. If he put his phone aside right now, Fitzjames would never talk to him again. It was just this night. This very moment.

But he had to try.

He had to, so he could imagine, just for a moment, Fitzjames saying—

 **JamesFitzJ** : I would love that! how’s your schedule?

* * *

“I’m going out,” Francis announced, putting on his coat as he beelined for the door. Jopson’s head shot up immediately. He and Little were working on some assignment on the kitchen table, so absorbed in it that Francis had hoped for an easy escape.

“Where to, sir?” Jopson asked as he looked him over. He was an observant kid: surely, he made note of Francis having put on a pair of good jeans and a form-fitting navy sweater. (He had been a tad too optimistic when he packed his bag.) His beard was trimmed, his hair well-combed, and he brushed his teeth about three times after breakfast.

Still, he lied through his teeth, “To see a friend.” Seeing Jopson’s expression, he added, “Came up last minute.”

“Very well, sir,” Jopson said. Francis swore under his breath, and crossed the room with his coat on and boots dangling in one hand. He reached over the table, and cupped Jopson’s face.

“I will never leave without a goodbye,” he said firmly, and waited until the neon sign over Jopson’s head saying ‘I have abandonment issues’ flickered and dimmed. “I’ll be back by tea, eh? You can report on your progress before my train leaves.” He ruffled his hair, then turned to Little, pointing a finger. “Don’t study too much. It’s a bloody Sunday.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Tell your date we said hi, sir,” Jopson said.

“Smartass,” Francis muttered fondly.

* * *

It wasn’t like he would be gone for long.

He had his doubts that Fitzjames would show up, although it’d be rude to cancel last minute, after they’d agreed on a brunch date and Fitzjames had suggested the place himself. His heart sank when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket on the way to Oxford Circus. It’d be Fitzjames, making an apology; Francis would accept it, the long commute be damned, the waste of time, because he understood that maybe their chatlog looked a bit different in the morning light, now that Fitzjames wasn’t overtired and lonely.

The notification was from Sophia.

She’d finally posted the photos.

 **Sophia_Cracroft** : It was good seeing you last night!

Francis left the message on read. It could wait. He pulled up the pictures though, and flipped through them critically; Sophia had uploaded them as a video log (or whatever the hell those were called), and added little animations saying _yaaas_ and _OMG_ and some hashtags Francis couldn’t even discern, but he wasn’t looking at those.

He looked at his own face, and thought, _hell, I look smitten_.

* * *

Oxford Circus was as busy as ever. Francis made his way through an ocean of tourists to Chapati & Karak. Fitzjames wouldn’t show up. Or he’d be late. He’d be late, and he’d be in a rush to have that drink he gushed about, karak, which was apparently “sooo much better than coffee,” and he would politely coax Francis to try it, and he wouldn’t like it but pretend that he did, and then Fitzjames would get his phone and say, _look at the time, oh_.

Except there was a very recognisable figure waiting outside the brown brick building, in a cute little peacoat that couldn’t possibly have been warm enough, anxiously checking his phone. As he looked up from the screen their eyes met and Francis couldn’t say a bloody thing, because Fitzjames was right there, and the Christmas lights from the trees shone on his hair, and Francis wasn’t prepared, wasn’t prepared for any of it.

The wide grin Fitzjames flashed at him just about broke him.

“O Captain, my Captain!” he greeted, pocketing the phone, his attention focused entirely on Francis, who couldn’t bear it. Fitzjames was here. He was real.

Francis had been sexting an actual human being.

“ _My fearful trip is done_ ,” he picked up on the poem, and gestured vaguely in the direction of the underground station.

Fitzjames eyes crinkled up with a genuine laugh. _“The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won_ ,” he purred in that velveteen voice of his.

What could Francis say _? I didn’t expect you to know Whitman by heart; not to question your education, but—I didn’t expect us to share any common interest, I didn't expect you to know the same things I do, to care for the same stuff, yet here you are, interested in_ me _, of all things, and well,_ that _is stupid—_

“Shall we?” he asked, so curtly it almost sounded like _let’s get this over with_ , even though that wasn’t his meaning. Fitzjames didn’t seem to mind; he opened the door with a charming smile, maybe just a bit too taut, his eyes a bit too wide—but those eyes: he couldn’t take them off Francis, kept looking even as he entered the café, walking backwards to keep the door open, to stare, look his fill, and Francis didn’t get it, why he would be so openly wanted.

“I love this place,” Fitzjames said, a bit louder, because there was some music on, soothing, slow, and people were chatting and glass and cutlery were clinking and there was water boiling, but it all seemed so far away, meaningless and distant, because Fitzjames stood in the limelight alone, and the rest was a blur.

Francis thought it had been—stagecraft, the effect Fitzjames had on his audience, and granted, his energy was very different today, but he was still larger than life, commanding attention, at least from Francis, helplessly attuned to him and fighting it—because it was silly, to swoon towards that pull, when it might have just been his own perception: Fitzjames wasn’t doing anything to captivate him so, except—

Except he brought Francis to a cute café where Fitzjames got greeted by name; where he headed for his usual seat confidently; he was sharing something he liked with Francis—his time, space, habits.

He shed his coat on the go: Francis watched him do it, watched the reveal of a fitted jacket and a dark turtleneck, and thought, _we aren’t mismatched._ Fitzjames’ clothes were—elegant, but not the unaffordable kind, not the kind of clothes you wouldn’t even dare touch. Then the rest of his coat slid off, and as Fitzjames draped it over his arm, it was revealed that he had a pencil skirt on, and long boots; he smoothed down the skirt before sitting, and looked at Francis with an eager face, as if he wanted his reaction, as if he dressed up just for him.

Francis had to place his own coat strategically so his reaction couldn’t be seen by all. He slid into their box: it reminded him of an Indian temple—beautifully carved white stone, laced blind windows, the smell of spices in the air. There were other places in the café where you could just lie on the ground, or sit on pillows; it looked like a popular choice for couples—and Fitzjames hadn’t led him there, but they shared this private little nook, and Fitzjames was beautiful, and as he set aside the _reserved_ card, Francis noticed that his hair was braided on one side, above his ear.

“You look very pretty,” he croaked out, even though what he meant to say was _you know, if you asked me to climb under this table and suck you off, I would._

Fitzjames looked at him in a way that implied he got his meaning. He liked to be flattered; he liked it so blatantly that Francis’ first instinct would’ve been to deny it to him, have him put up a fight for even the simplest compliment; but then he wouldn’t get to see that glint in Fitzjames’ eyes, that small smile.

“You must tell me about yourself, handsome,” Fitzjames said, trying to sound cocky and failing at it, because he had that sort of face where every emotion he ever felt showed up on it in chronological order, and his earnestness undermined the affected confidence.

He was still better off than Francis, who suspected that all his features managed to convey were _angry_ and _horny_ , neighbouring emotions in his dictionary.

There was something numbing in the mutual knowledge that they wanted each other: no games to play, no pretences. Francis had no script for it: he was like an actor forgetting his lines, terrified that the next thing he’d blurt out would be something so personal it’d embarrass his audience.

_I’m Francis Crozier, I’m fifty-seven, I was born in Northern Ireland…the first time I wanked I got so scared by how good it felt I didn’t even finish. I’m sorry._

“What would you like to know?” Francis asked, pained.

Fitzjames made a luxurious gesture. “What do you do?”

“I teach chemistry and mathematics,” he replied, as strained as if he were on a job interview; what’s worse, he started fidgeting with a corner of the laminated menu without even looking at it.

“Of course you do,” Fitzjames droned, and cocked his head to the side. Looked Francis over with magnified interest, the concentration of piecing him together furrowing his brows. “What do you like best about your job?”

“My students,” Francis said without having to think about it. “Great kids,” he added. “You hope that you might make an impact on their life. Jopson didn’t go on studying science, but journalism suits him much better anyway. His boyfriend studies astronomy, and I had some part in that. You see them grow up to be decent adults, maybe even happy ones, and that—is accomplishment enough.” He bit his lips. He felt he’d done enough talking for a year. Fitzjames could carry on, if he wanted, and Francis would listen, and never speak again.

Except Fitzjames propped up his chin on his hands, and noted, “See, this is why I _always_ had a crush on my teachers.”

Francis blinked, confused. Then he remembered that some people found teachers hot. He scoffed, amused. “Attracted to authority figures?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Fitzjames mused. “I think...some people like bad guys. I like good men—or whatever; the gender doesn’t matter. Just—kindness. Joy. Purpose.”

“So in a partner, you look for—” Francis frowned. “Someone who would be gentle with you.”

Fitzjames gave him a helpless look; Francis wanted to carry on the conversation, but the waiter arrived. It allowed Francis some time to think, and also to realise he had no idea what he wanted to drink, save for the ever-present craving of alcohol. Fitzjames wanted—well. Francis had thought he wanted a quick, hard fuck at most, and God knows Francis was ready to deliver that, but then—would he pet Fitzjames’ hair and tell him he was doing so, so well? Absolutely.

A star magician on the West End stage, people screaming his name—what was there behind that, that Francis could give?

“And what can I get you, sir?” the waiter asked. Francis wasn’t prepared for the question; he lifted the menu like he had any idea what he was doing, quirked an eyebrow as if he was contemplating his choices, but under the facade, he was flustered enough that he couldn’t even tell the food and drink options apart—the moment stretched on, and he scrambled for a solution. Not getting anything or delaying the decision would be a refusal he didn’t mean; it’d be dismissive of Fitzjames’ enthusiasm choosing the place, a place he loved, it’d imply that Francis didn’t give a rat’s arse, but that wasn’t true, that wasn’t it, he really appreciated the gesture, he just couldn’t think of anything else besides how or when would he get to put his hands on Fitzjames, how well he’d caress him, a hand in his long hair, a hand gently nudging his knees apart, the tight skirt catching his thighs, Francis’ hand over his pretty pink cock, _I’ve got you, I’ve got you_ —

“I’ll have what my lovely date is having,” Francis announced, and it was so, so cheesy, but it made Fitzjames beam, so easily pleased; he was so easy to please, so why didn’t more people do it? Why did he have to settle for someone like Francis today?

“ _So_ ,” Fitzjames purred once the waiter was out of earshot, “as a teacher of the subject, what’s your expert opinion? Do we have chemistry?”

Francis met the teasing with a disarmingly earnest gaze, and said, quite frankly, “It would appear so.”

Fitzjames leant back in his chair, chewing on his lips. He looked pleased, the fervour in his eyes merely a glint. He played it cool, overtly so, addressing his nails as he asked, “Was that your first magic show? Have I popped your cherry?”

“Would you be very disappointed if I confessed I wasn’t a virgin?” Francis deadpanned, making Fitzjames chuckle. Laughter suited him: he had a serious face, but the quirk of his lips always implied amusement or mischief.

“I’m crestfallen,” he said. “So much for my next trick, where I sacrifice a virgin to Satan for real powers.”

“Would you—”

“Would I sacrifice a virgin to Satan?”

“No, idiot, would you want real magic?”

Francis cursed to himself as soon as the sentence was finished; he didn’t mean to insult Fitzjames—it was just the way he talked with people who put him at ease, Blanky, Ross, his sisters—but Fitzjames didn’t seem to take offence: maybe as much at ease as Francis himself; maybe just as keen, and terrified and excited.

“I don’t _know_ ,” he complained, crossing his arms as he contemplated the question. “I suppose I’d be a fool to refuse, but I enjoy the technicalities of it, the hard work, the practice. If I didn’t have to sweat for it, would it even be worth it?”

Francis snorted, surprised. He hadn't expected them to share a work ethic.

The ease of the conversation was similarly startling. They drifted from topic to topic aimlessly until their drinks arrived: no goal, no hidden objective, just two adults having a conversation, because they liked talking to each other. Fitzjames wasn’t testing him, wasn’t even trying to determine if he liked Francis or not—he had already made up his mind.

He just wanted to listen, and be listened to in turn—and maybe he was a bit chatty, which Francis usually thought exhausting, but not with Fitzjames’ eagerness: it wasn’t vanity—it was a plea, _notice me, I’m right here._ He was desperate to share everything he had, from memories to laughter, and even his drink. Although they’d both ordered cardamon karak, Fitzjames insisted that Francis take a sip from his glass, because each cup supposedly tasted different. It wasn’t just the rush of spice that heated Francis’ face when he swallowed around the drink.

“Better than coffee,” he said, hoarse. 

“So much better.”

Their fingers brushed when Francis handed the glass back. Fitzjames met his eyes, and ran his thumb over Francis’ knuckles in a gentle caress. He shivered with it: such a simple touch, and already—

“When we finished drinking,” Fitzjames said softly, “I’d like to invite you over to my place, if that’s okay.”

Francis drank up the karak as if it was a shot of tequila. “Let’s go,” he proposed.

Fitzjames laughed, showing an adorably crooked row of teeth; took his own drink, and sloshed it around, taking his time. “We could go to yours, or a hotel, if that’s more comfortable, but I live like fifteen minutes away.”

“That’s great.” Francis gathered his coat and looked at him expectantly.

Fitzjames’ eyes crinkled up as he took a long, delicious sip, throat working in the most tantalizing way. If they weren’t in a public space, Francis would’ve palmed his dick to adjust it: it was pressing against the jeans’ seam rather annoyingly. They needed to get behind closed doors for comfort alone.

Fitzjames licked his lips and moaned contently; set the glass back to the table, chasing the last droplets on the rim with his fingertips.

“Tease,” Francis said.

“You have no idea,” Fitzjames murmured, and popped his wet fingers into his mouth to lick the karak off.

“I’m getting the bill.” Francis got to his feet, only half-joking with his hurry; Fitzjames’ gaze dropped to the front of his jeans. His eyes darkened as he chewed on the inside of his mouth.

“You better,” he said.

Francis headed to the bar, because the other option was to lean over the table and kiss Fitzjames, and he wouldn’t just kiss him. He needed him too badly; he’d suck on his tongue and pull him to his feet, bend him over the table swiftly, reach under his skirt—damn that skirt; how was Francis supposed to keep any blood in his brain, when all he wanted was to palm that gorgeous cock, feel the weight and heat of Fitzjames’ desire, reach further back, find him well-lubed, dripping wet. In his head, they were no longer in the café, but back on stage, facing empty rows of seats, Francis’ thick fingers sliding deep as he whispered, _‘You needed assistance; is this what you had in mind, then? Somebody to help you get ready for cock?’_

He imagined Fitzjames moaning in answer and slammed his credit card on the counter. “We had two spicy teas,” he croaked.

Fitzjames caught up with him (God, those long legs of his), holding a wallet. Francis scowled at him. “I’m paying.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Let me?”

Fitzjames gave him a carefully coy look: overly playful, should there be a refusal. “I was going to get an iced karak to go,” he said with a pondering pout. “Need more caffeine.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Fitzjames’ gaze dropped to Francis’ crotch, now tastefully obscured by his coat, and somehow that answered it, it managed to convey _I_ _was too busy wanking off to all those shameless things you texted me_.

“Be my guest,” Francis said. Fitzjames’ entire face lit up. Francis didn’t even mind that he ordered his drink within a nearly three minute dialogue, which involved catching up with the health of the barista’s extended family and exchanging several observations about the weather. They almost made it outside, but a girl just entering saw Fitzjames, screamed, and asked for a selfie. Francis stepped out to the street in stealth, waiting by the exit until Fitzjames was finished. Fitzjames knew everybody, and everybody knew him: he still chose to take Francis home.

 _Lucky me, huh_ , Francis thought to himself, and couldn’t help a smile. He was standing in the heart of London, hundreds of people passing him, not taking notice of how he was glowing with this precious secret: _I was chosen. Rather enthusiastically, in fact._

“Sorry about that,” Fitzjames said, pulling his coat tight around himself as he exited the café; then his hands fell away, and he gasped, “It’s snowing!”

Francis squinted. Some weak white dots were indeed idling down from above. “I’d hardly call it snow.”

“Do you reckon we’ll have a white Christmas?”

“When was the last time—what are you doing?”

Fitzjames, apparently, tried to catch snowflakes on his tongue. It was more cute than hot; but it was so cute that Francis couldn’t even look.

“Doofus,” he muttered affectionately, and got hold of his arm without thinking.

Fitzjames linked their elbows, and led the way, marching Francis though the busy street proudly. Francis’ heart was beating so fast he felt the need to taunt Fitzjames again. “Why would you have an iced drink in December, anyhow?”

Fitzjames stopped slurping for a moment. “Ice is very seasonal.”

“It’s cold.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you drink hot tea in summer?”

“I do, actually. It’s very refreshing”

Francis halted to process this. Fitzjames grinned at him, even though they got some very pointed _pardons_ from people bumping into them. They were making their way through Oxford Street, which was about the worst place to be with the holidays approaching, and the worst place to turn to Fitzjames, and say, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“Not if I kiss you first,” Fitzjames said.

Their gaze met with a challenge.

Fitzjames bucked his knees and swooped in, but Francis was the first to capture his lips, which were quite chilled from his stupid icy drink. Francis tried to breathe warmth back into him, and held onto him protectively, pulling him away from the pushes of the crowd, anchoring him down. Fitzjames found shelter in his arms, hiding himself in Francis’ embrace, and only pulled away to catch a breath, to look at Francis in wonder. There were snowflakes in his hair, even on his eyelashes. They melted under Francis’ lips as he kissed them away.

* * *

Fitzjames lived in Fitzrovia, because of course he did. His flat was surprisingly modest and annoyingly charming, with a moderate Victorian touch to elevate the otherwise minimalist design. Francis was so busy admiring some framed daguerreotypes that he nearly kicked over a set of blue willow porcelain bowls. 

“Ah, you have a dog!” he said, and peered around, hoping to spot it.

“He’s at my brother’s, I’m afraid. I popped over with him in tow, and my niece couldn’t bear to part with him.” A fond smile tugged at Fitzjames’ lips at the memory.

He took Francis’ coat, who said, “I should’ve known you have a niece.”

“ _And_ a nephew.”

“Coin tricks?”

“What auntcle would I be without coin tricks?” He leant close, as if sharing some great secret. “I only perform the shittiest ones for them, French drop, thumb palm vanish, the whole shebang, makes them feel _so_ clever when they figure them out.”

Francis felt his heart melt. He had to kiss Fitzjames again. It was an apologetic kiss: _sorry I ever thought you shallow and self-obsessed_. Francis rarely met people who just—cared about making other people happy, but it came to Fitzjames so easily, this quiet generosity, underperforming so kids could outsmart him, making small talk with a barista even in a hurry, filling his audience’s night with joy and wonder; his beating heart on his palm, offered to Francis, _take it, take it if you need it, if you need me_.

“Oh my,” Fitzjames whispered against his lips, his words tasting of spice and tea. “If I knew coin tricks were a turn-on for you—”

“ _You_ are a turn on,” Francis said, and guided them towards what he hoped to be the bedroom.

It was the kitchen.

Fitzjames answered each new kiss with enthusiasm and did everything in his power to get cornered against the counter. It’s been a while since Francis let himself enjoy snogging without his mind on the next step: but it didn’t feel like a prelude with Fitzjames, not with how thrilled he was to share the slick heat of his tongue, let Francis swallow his gasps—God, he was so _vocal_ , not even kissing would shut him up, and Francis loved that, loved those urgent little moans, the long groans. He was lost in Fitzjames completely: sound, taste, touch, the smell of his aftershave, the sight of his reddened lips when he pulled back for a moment; how his mouth curled up to a sly smile.

“What’s that?” he asked, and reached behind Francis’ ear.

Francis grabbed his wrist. “Don’t,” he begged.

“No, I think I definitely found something.”

Francis groaned, and wrestled Fitzjames’ arm away, pinning it to the counter; he was worried he’d been too rough, but Fitzjames gasped his encouragement. Francis got his other hand, and leant over him, pressing him down with the whole weight of his body—mindful of Fitzjames’ breathing, or any twitch of pain.

“Come on now, escape artist,” Francis said, and kissed him again. Fitzjames was like a tamed thing, all that power and agility submitting to Francis, his heaving chest pressed up to Francis’ body, so close he could almost make out his heartbeat.

“Left,” Fitzjames said.

“Huh?”

“Look to your left.”

Francis blinked at Fitzjames’ hand: his fingers were innocuously curled around a bottle of lube.

“I don’t know if I should be offended that you weren’t paying full attention,” Francis said, “or be impressed.”

“Please be impressed? The lube was out of my reach, it wasn’t _easy—_ ”

“Why do you have lube in the kitchen anyway?” Francis reached for the bottle to inspect it, still lying half-atop Fitzjames; he examined the label, but stroked Fitzjames’ face with his other hand, pretending to be absorbed in reading while his gesture conveyed _good job, you sneaky thing_.

“I was in the kitchen when you were texting me,” Fitzjames said. He arched into his touch and nibbled on his thumb; Francis had no hope making it past _aqua_ and _sorbitol_.

“It wasn’t exactly dirty talking.”

“But you were interested. And I have a good imagination.”

“What did you imagine me doing?”

Fitzjames pressed a kiss to Francis’ palm, then peered up at him, that wide-eyed look from behind his lashes so, _so_ calculated, but it was playful and perfect. “Fingering me.”

Francis hissed and hauled up Fitzjames. He had already put him against the counter, standing between his spread legs, when he realised how much easier it would’ve been if he’d just turned him around. He was committed to the posture now: Fitzjames’ skirt slid up, but it was too tight to have more give without assistance. Francis slid his palm under it while Fitzjames untucked his turtleneck, rolled it up his stomach, exposed his chest. Francis’ lips instantly found his nipple, sucking eagerly while his fingers slid between Fitzjames’ cheeks.

There was too much stuff in the way.

“Do these stocking have any sentimental value to you?” he murmured.

“Why?”

“Want to tear them off.”

“Oh, _please_!”

Francis penetrated the material with his thumb: it gave easily, and Francis tore at it until it ripped and Fitzjames cried out his name with a shocked laugh.

Their position was—decidedly awkward. Fitzjames was lean and tall: Francis had all but folded him under a cupboard, and Fitzjames had to lean back on his elbows to expose the parts he wanted Francis to touch. After a moment of consideration, Francis asked, “How flexible are you?”

“You’ve _seen_ the show.”

“Could you hook a leg over my shoulder—that’s it, yeah, just like that.”

Fitzjames sank further down and back, and Francis carefully rolled up his skirt, exposing the stockings, the hole Francis tore on them, and Fitzjames’ knickers: a beautiful but complicated lace affair, which Francis didn’t have the heart to harm—but nor did he have the patience to take them off, when he saw how Fitzjames’ cock was pressing against them, so hard for him it must’ve ached. Francis stroked it apologetically, _your turn in a minute_ , then pressed two lube-slick fingers into the cleft of Fitzjames’ firm little arse—he only inserted one, but Fitzjames still jerked bolt upright.

It must’ve been the screwing motion that had become Francis’ trademark bedroom trick.

“All right?”

“Do that again,” Fitzjames panted. Francis twisted his finger, hard and fast, curling the tip; he hooked it up inside Fitzjames, then pulled out sharply. Fitzjames’ hips canted up, and Francis was back inside.

“Did you imagine me to be more tender?” he asked.

“I was clearly underestimating you—add another, I can—”

“I know you can take it,” Francis said gently. Fitzjames swore under his breath: he looked already wrecked, and Francis had barely began. He was focused on Fitzjames, every expression that crossed his flushed face, his exposed chest, the rolled-up skirt; he felt at peace with the universe, which was probably silly, but he’s so often been—lost, adrift, but right now, right here: he felt he was where he was supposed to be, fulfilling some dormant purpose by servicing Fitzjames’ pleasure.

The only thing he would changed about it would’ve been—not wearing jeans, possibly, because they threatened to explode clear off him, he was so _ridiculously_ hard, his thickened prick pressing against his fly, but he’d ignore it for now, even if he couldn’t help the instinctive push of his hips, effectively humping the counter while he fucked Fitzjames with his fingers, imagining that it was his dick, but Fitzjames didn’t ask for his dick, he asked for _this_ : so this is what Francis would give him, fill him up like this, stretch him out well.

Fitzjames was convulsing around his fingers, pulling him deeper, the pulsing heat of him just exquisite; and his face: mouth slack, eyes bright, sweat glistening on his forehead, his long neck. His soft chest, his hard stomach, begging to be fondled. Fitzjames began to touch himself there, play with his hardened nipples while Francis fingered him tirelessly, making so much noise and mess, sticky everywhere, connected to Fitzjames in this impossibly intimate way, because he let him, and allowed him to watch how he caressed his creamy chest, his strong body arching up, the peaked nipples, that soft roll of flesh pressing into his palms—

Francis had to halt.

He didn’t pull out, wouldn’t dream of it, but stopped to catch a breath. His head was swimming. He was so aroused his vision blacked out on the side, a midnight halo around Fitzjames, his worried face.

“Francis?”

“Sorry,” Francis said, blinking rapidly, but his vision didn’t clear, his heartrate wouldn’t still, he was—fuck. Edging. Just from the friction the counter and the rough material of his jeans offered, just from looking at Fitzjames and touching him, because Fitzjames was far too stunning, and Francis wanted to give him more, more, more— “I’m close,” he admitted, defeated. “A moment—”

“That good, huh?” Fitzjames said with a wink. He pushed himself up; Francis’ fingers slid out, falling to the counter. Francis grumbled; he could go on, he just needed—the ringing to stop in his ears, he needed—

“I’m okay.”

Fitzjames pressed his forehead to his, rubbed their noses together, probing. “Do you want to come, gorgeous? I don’t mind.”

“Not right now,” Francis grumbled, avoiding his soft gaze. “Crap. I’m sorry.” He reached to adjust himself with his clean hand. His cock was far too tender: even this simple touch was overwhelming.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” Fitzjames said, reaching for his belt.

“Nah, it’s fine.”

Fitzjames changed course, staying clear off the buckle as he hooked a finger into Francis’ beltloop, and tugged at it gently. “Get naked with me?” he suggested, nuzzling his nose again. “Let’s get naked, let’s get to bed, and continue right where we left off. My back is quitting on me anyway.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Francis fussed as he helped him off the counter.

Fitzjames stayed close, as if in a dance. “A gorgeous man was fingerblasting me, and I’m vain,” he said. “Wasn’t going to complain.” He started peeling off what remained of his stockings. There was nothing dignified in it: he hopped on one leg, and Francis just watched, enchanted. Was he really allowed to witness this? These awkward, private moments? Fitzjames shrugging of the blazer, reaching behind his back to take off his turtleneck—how the lean muscles in his slender arms flexed.

Francis wasn’t going to let him strip alone.

He couldn’t.

He started with his socks while Fitzjames was busy with the skirt’s buttons. Francis had nothing impressive to reveal, but hopefully Fitzjames wouldn’t have high expectations for an old bloke, a _dinosaur_. Francis had always been stocky, but when he’d reached thirty, and started reaching for more and more beer, he started having a bit of a belly, and it never went away. He’d stopped expecting to see something more agile in the mirror, but never knew what his partners wanted. Chest hair was no longer fashionable, however scant; the freckles over his shoulder and back had always been an embarrassment. Fitzjames wasn’t exactly tanned, but next to him, Francis felt positively pasty, and uninteresting, his only redeeming feature being that his erection was still present, if subdued; but even that—he nearly came from touching Fitzjames; what was there to hope for, at this point? He should just offer to suck him off, but it’d been ages since he’d been with somebody with a penis—bloody hell, it’d been since uni—

“Look at me,” Fitzjames said. Francis obeyed, stiffly holding his bundle of clothing; at least he beat the impulse to use it to conceal something. Fitzjames stepped close: he was just as dazzling as he’d been on stage, something from a dream, and it was surreal to think that Francis had touched him, had been inside of him, and he just wanted—more of that, to bury himself in Fitzjames, hide there.

“God, you could crush me,” Fitzjames breathed, caressing Francis’ thighs with his knuckles, then following the trail of hair, stroking his stomach.

“I wasn’t planning on homicide,” Francis reassured him.

Fitzjames cupped his face in both hands and pulled him into a kiss that was far more sloppy than the ones they’d shared so far, all tongue, as if Fitzjames was trying to eat him up, his hard cock poking at Francis’ hips.

So.

Fitzjames was still turned on by him.

That was—reassuring.

Francis ventured to cup his arse as he kissed back, slowing the pace, rather afraid that he might spill. He kissed down Fitzjames’ chin, his neck, who hummed a low moan, offering more of his throat. “I love how your beard burns,” he whispered.

Francis squeezed his arse harder: he wanted to put his fingers back, better yet, start fucking Fitzjames, and God, he would’ve—he would’ve just lifted him up, pressed him to a wall, he would’ve fucked him on the _floor_ , but he wanted to make it last, give it his best shot, and at this point, he owed it to Fitzjames to have him come first, he wanted to _prove_ he could be a gentleman about this.

“I think I have an idea how to cool us down,” Fitzjames murmured. Francis made an inquisitive noise against his skin; scoffed when Fitzjames reached for his paper cup and he heard icecubes rattle.

“A literal approach,” he noted.

“I’m just suggesting. If you’re into sensation play.”

Francis peered at the cup in Fitzjames’ hand. How would one even—? He had some vague ideas; they involved Fitzjames’ chest, and he was definitely interested in that. Hell, he was interested in anything that might bring Fitzjames pleasure, and what kind of science teacher wouldn’t love to experiment?

“I’d like to try it out,” he said, then added, “Bedroom?”

He didn’t know if melted ice cubes would be welcome in Fitzjames’ sheets, but staying in the kitchen wouldn’t be the best call either—they’ve established it wasn’t exactly comfortable. Fitzjames seemed to have an idea: he took Francis’ hand, and led the way, carrying the papercup like a trophy.

It was the oddest, cutest thing: Francis had never been dragged into bed like some—kinky teddy bear, but it made him feel rather decadent, crossing the living room in the nude, pulled along towards something new and thrilling involving ice cubes and James Fitzjames. He took a proud look around: he’d want to remember this room. The fireplace caught his gaze: it must’ve been electronic, but looked very convincing, and what’s more, it had a faux wolf skin laid down in front of it. Francis had a sudden mental image of Fitzjames among those luxurious furs, gloriously naked, writhing to be touched, tearing into his own hair as a cold drop of water hit his skin.

“Can we—” he asked, then bit back the sentence. Was he seriously going to suggest lying on the floor when Fitzjames had, no doubt, a perfectly lovely bed, which would be so much more comfortable, not to mention age-appropriate.

But Fitzjames noticed where he was looking; his bright eyes widened, and he said, “You’re brilliant.”

Francis didn’t know what to do with that. He had two degrees. Spoke a couple of languages. Surely his brightest idea wasn’t to fool around on the floor, but then again, people no longer told him he was brilliant, because they took it for granted, of course he’d be clever, he was a teacher, he—

—still needed to hear it.

He followed Fitzjames like a blushing bride, and it didn’t even have anything to do with the ice cubes, or Fitzjames getting down to all fours to climb over the fur, but then—well, Fitzjames’ arse was in the air, and he had just called Francis brilliant, and his lovely hole was glistening with lube, because Francis made it like that, prepared it for himself, like some reward to be deserved, and he just got closer to it, didn’t he, closer to having a right to claim it, have somebody like Fitzjames.

“How do you want me?” Fitzjames asked. He rolled to his side to look at Francis, propping up his head. The fire made his skin look golden, the sharp angles of his body standing out; his cock lay over his long thigh, the shadow of neat hair around it making it look all the more alluring. Francis couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“You’re perfect just like this,” he said, and went down to his knees without thinking, reached for the cup absentmindedly. His head was blissfully empty: all he could think of was touching Fitzjames. He palmed an icecube, and ran the flat of his hand over Fitzjames’ chest, experimental; Fitzjames hissed at the shock of the contact, so Francis licked up the cold water swiftly, only focusing on how the heat would balance out the cold: then it hit him that he was lying on the ground with somebody, licking him.

Life was full of surprises.

The faux fur tickled his side as he shifted for a better angle; the heat from the fireplace laved at his skin, and he felt dizzy again, but it was a pleasant buzz, like—being drunk, before it became a problem, when there was no shame attached to it, and no guilt. Not a bar crawl: like taking the eucharist. He slid the ice down Fitzjames’ body, watching the droplets of water left in its wake, trembling on Fitzjames’s skin, then before long, he cupped his cock: and there was some immense relief in that, touching him there, the ice sliding up his shaft.

“Going for the prize right away?” Fitzjames said. His voice was altered, more throaty and raw. He lifted his leg to give Francis better access, hooked it over Francis’ hips.

“You don’t seem to mind it,” Francis noted.

“Mm, I love that you’re forthright.” Fitzjames reached into the cup, and got an ice cube of his own. “Dare I say blunt. In the sexiest of terms only, of course.” Fitzjames held the ice cube to Francis’ lips: he took it into his mouth as he held Fitzjames in his cold grip. “You slid into my DMs like you had some claim to me. And I think maybe you did; I didn’t want anybody that night but you. I wouldn’t want anybody else now.” He kissed Francis deeply; the ice clicked against their teeth, then slowly started to melt as Fitzjames lapped at it, sucking up the water from Francis’ lips. It tasted, faintly, of tea.

Francis was lost to the kiss; he remembered to change hands maybe a tad too late, offering a warm fist when the ice cube had almost completely melted over Fitzjames’ cock. Fitzjames slid into his hand like he always belonged there, then got an ice cube and got his revenge, giving a cold caress to Francis’ cock. It was a surprising sensation: Francis had the instinct to recoil from it, but he wanted more of it, too. He broke the kiss to look down, watch Fitzjames’ elegant hand on his cock, his own over Fitzjames’. It seemed so ordinary already, that they’d do this, just lie around playing with each other’s bodies, the wonderful mischief of it, the curiosity; but Francis’ mind was still lingering on what Fitzjames said-- _didn’t want anybody that night but you_.

“I hated the very idea of your show,” he confessed. “I didn’t want to go.”

“I could tell,” Fitzjames said with a snort. “I don’t even see the audience—ahh, yes, like that—mm, just the first row, and you were right there, looking ready to throttle me in the non-fun way—so my goal had become to impress you, you alone—”

“Why would you punish yourself like that?”

Fitzjames fucked into Francis’ fist, his full cock still wet, but so hot Francis suspected an ice cube would melt on first impact—and well, he had to test. “This doesn’t feel like punishment,” Fitzjames said.

Francis got another piece of ice, and touched it to Fitzjames’ chest first: he drew a cartoon heart over the real thing beating. “Take better care of this. Promise.”

Fitzjames looked at him, pleading, something terribly fragile in his gaze. “Will you take care of it today, for me?”

“What do you need?”

“Indulge me.”

Francis did the best he could: the ice glided down Fiztjames’ body, leaving a wet trail down his lovely torso, following the dip of his hips, that sharp V, then the line of his cock, from shaft to tip. Fitzjames gasped, shuddered with it; said, “Did you know you’re the first one to ever get me tea?”

“That can’t be,” Francis said, and kissed his peaked nipples, as if to apologise for past lovers’ bad manners.

“I get booze, for sure,” Fitzjames went on, “and I get to halve the bill, but nobody thought to buy a hot drink for me before.”

“How couldn’t they?” Realization hit as he moved the ice cube down Fitzjames’ cock. “Is it because—masculinity? Because they think—”

“I’ve been presenting myself as a man for a long time, but I thought the world would catch up, eventually.” He bit the inside of his lips, peered down at Francis’ hand, how it hovered over his dick, careful, protective. “The way you touch me—I think you get it.”

“Tell me how to make love to you,” Francis asked. Maybe the wording was a bit—polite; he wanted to fuck Fitzjames, and no mistake, fuck him in a way that brought both of them pleasure, get fucked, whatever Fitzjames preferred. He wanted Fitzjames to teach him the vocabulary of his anatomy: guide him through his body, so Francis wouldn’t assume he knew it already.

“Have you been tested recently?” Fitzjames asked.

“Fortnight ago. I donate blood every month.”

“I’m clean too, so I thought—if you don’t mind—I’d want you to come inside me, Francis.”

“Of course,” Francis said. His fingers drifted over Fitzjames’ scrotum, waiting for permission. The idea of it alone: that he’d get to mark Fitzjames in such a way—spill inside him, give him a part of himself, free and safe, to keep.

“I do have condoms,” Fitzjames said. “Condoms for weeks. Every colour of the rainbow.”

“It’s been a while since I—” Francis bit back the rest of the sentence. It’s been a while he did anything. A two year dry spell. Longer still, since he last had unprotected sex. “I’m good,” Francis said. “I want it, too. I want to—”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Hell. Fitzjames would look so pretty, with his arse all creamed up; and Francis had an opportunity to see him like that, open and wet.

Fitzjames got to his hands and knees, and reached for the sofa nearby. He got hold of an armful of throwpillows, all tastefully Christmas-themed, which he scattered on the ground. He looked Francis over, who was fully hard again, ready to do whatever Fitzjames asked of him.

“Call me basic,” Fitzjames said, “but I just want to sit on that cock and ride it hard.”

Francis’ cock gave a hopeful twitch. “Why would that be basic?”

“Everybody thinks they can ride dick,” Fitzjames explained as he crawled back over him, “then they check out after three minutes, lose the bloody rhythm.”

“Show them how it’s done, then,” Francis said, breathless. Fitzjames was stunning, kneeling atop him: his soft hair fell forward, a deep brown in the firelight. Francis couldn’t believe his luck. Fitzjames set the cup of ice aside: the way it knocked against the hardwood floor sounded final. He got the lube, and spread it over Francis’ cock, who tried not to react to the expert pull of Fitzjames’ hand, the silky pour of the luxurious lube. He got impatient soon: reached for his wet cock to line himself up , offer his most sensitive part for Fitzjames, for his pleasure. Francis yearned to feel used: used and valued—a cherished possession, like a beloved dildo kept in a special box.

When the tip of his cock breached Fitzjames, he didn’t feel like a toy at all. He felt like a person, complex and whole: awash with a sudden awareness from the root of his hair to his toes, every sensation concentrated to the inches sinking into Fitzjames, becoming a part of him. Fitzjames was slow and careful sliding down his length: his hands were bracketing Francis’ face, who was lying atop the fur and pillows, motionless, at first, appreciating the moment, the suddenness of heat, the slow spread of it, and the faces Fitzjames made, so close to ecstasy. His divine body arched: he threw his head back at the last bit of descent, until Francis was fully seated.

“Fu—Francis,” he gasped.

“Fitzjames,” Francis said, like an invocation: he rolled his hips, and stilled, confused, when Fitzjames snickered. There was no malice in it: Fitzjames’ gaze was warm and tender as he got hold of Francis’ hand, squeezed it.

“Have you been thinking about me by my surname the _entire_ time?” he asked.

“...Possibly,” Francis admitted.

“You’re six inch deep inside me, call me James.”

“Six five, James.”

“Or maybe I should call you Mister—”

“Crozier.”

“Mr. Crozier,” James repeated, unbearably tender, full of wonder; he began moving up and down, forward and back, graceful like a real equestrian. “You feel wonderful, Mr. Crozier,” he purred.

“Francis will do,” Francis said, a blush spreading over his chest. It was difficult to focus with his hips twitching up into James’ heat instinctively; it took all his willpower not to just hammer into him, and let him enjoy the dreamy pace. “May I—?”

“Please.”

Francis got up to his elbows for a better angle, and started moving carefully, following the rhythm James set, with timid cants of his hips, barely dipping his cock in. James’ own erection was very distracting in its glorious display, standing proudly between them, too hard to slam against James’ trembling stomach. Francis was staring at it as he grabbed James’ hip. James had apparently elected not to touch himself, which was all fine: but Francis was still determined to make him come first—and a little help was needed for that. He guided James to an ideal angle, then slammed inside with a sharp thrust.

James cried out; a broken moan, almost a howl. Francis wanted to hear it again.

“Good?”

“ _Excellent_ , that was my prostate.”

“Still is,” Francis said smugly, and rubbed his cock over the spot.

James hissed. “ _Was_. Pretty sure you just destroyed it.” He gave him a sly look. “Do it again?”

Francis grabbed both of his hips in answer.

“Now we’re talking,” James mumbled, then all he could do was gasp and yell. Francis ground into him deep, then dragged his cock out slowly; the head caught at James’ outstretched rim. Francis yanked him back onto his cock, the breath knocked out from both of them. Every thrust was planned: Francis would give his most to each stab, because James had to be fucked thoroughly, and well.

He looked fantastic straddling Francis’ hips, swaying with every move they made, face relaxed but eyebrows pinched, his mouth half open. So handsome, and such surprising vigour and strength, driven, eager: much like the energy he had on stage, and Francis became conscious again that it was the self-same person, a coquettish magician who stripped for him. Francis’ desire had only deepened since that first glance at his nakedness, and each time he thought he couldn’t possibly want James more, James did something that drove him wild. Even now: even buried inside him, Francis wanted more of him, just another kiss, a bite, a taste.

He was tempted to nip at him or suck at his skin, a small mark, because James would have a show tonight, and Francis liked the idea that he’d go on stage, bruised by Francis’ kiss; that whoever he chose for the card trick would perhaps notice that mark, could guess at its origin—that someone had him; that James belonged to Francis, even if just for this morning.

Francis sat up, keeping James in his lap. James got hold of Francis’ soft shoulders, held on for leverage so he could move on his cock better. Francis kissed his neck; laved at it; grazed his teeth over the Adam’s apple, felt James clench around him and tremble. Bit down—gentle, gentle; it wouldn’t show up, he’d be careful so it wouldn’t—

James grabbed his hair and pulled him in closer, made his teeth sink in deeper. Francis said against his spit-wet skin, muffled, “It’ll smart.”

“I want you to—” James said, and had to swallow: his voice was dry and hoarse. “Give people something to talk about, huh?”

Francis hadn’t left lovebites on anybody since a dare in his teens: he was eager to do it now, break the skin and spell out with his tongue, _mine_.

His hands sank down to James’ arse, grabbed two handfuls, spreading him further as Francis rutted in and out of him, faster now, breathless, responding to each lavish roll of James’ hips.

“Oh,” James panted. “Oh. Okay. Guess who’s close.”

Francis grunted his approval into James’ neck. James put his arms around Francis’ back, held him close, hiding his face in the crook of his shoulder. His cock slid against Francis’ stomach, slick and hard, his tight little arse squeezing around Francis. There was no part of him that wasn’t giving Francis pleasure: he enjoyed the softness of his skin, the taste of it, the smell, and hearing that last, raw cry. Then the splash of James’ come: the hot spurt over Francis’ stomach, and quite a showy amount of it, because of course James would be pompous in all things, even this.

Francis didn’t stop: couldn’t, for the whole world. Not when James was still clinging to him, laughing, whispering sweet nothings, _so good, Francis, keep going_. James peppered his shoulder with small kisses, stroked his back; Francis didn’t care how flushed he was, how sweaty and breathless: he was desired. James held him through the first shivers of his orgasm; only held him closer when Francis started spilling. Francis kept blinking through it, amazed, and he wanted to laugh, too, because wasn’t it absurd, this burst of utter joy, the sharp relief of it. He felt himself smiling as he kissed James, and a grin was still on his lips as he collapsed back on the pillows, James on top of him like a heavy blanket—a quite sticky one at that.

“Let me fetch you a towel,” Francis said.

“Mm, no,” James said idly. “Later. Wanna look at you.”

Francis traced the bruise he left on James’ neck. Wondered what mess he must’ve made of him elsewhere; ventured to check, dipping his fingers back inside James’ arse, smearing his own come around.

“Fuck it back into me?” James asked.

“I’m well over fifty. Next erection in the next century.”

“With your fingers?”

Francis considered it. Well. There was no biological barrier there.

“Ask nicely,” he said.

“Pretty fucking please,” James muttered as he leant in for a kiss.

* * *

It seemed like now that they'd started to kiss and fuck, they just couldn’t stop. Due to some Christmas miracle, Francis got aroused enough by his ministrations to venture round two. They made it to the sofa, but not the bedroom. Then a steamy shower followed: James turned out to be an insatiable incubus, and Francis was kind enough to suck him off. To his relief, he himself didn’t get fully hard again; to his chagrin, his cock still ached.

James had lent him some fancy silk dressing gown while Francis had the pleasure to watch the complicated process of James drying his hair. Francis was sitting on the toilet with its lid down, in the chic bathroom of somebody who showed absolutely no intention of kicking him out. It had started to worry Francis.

“This was fun,” he commented cautiously, addressing James’ reflection, who was brushing his hair, languid like a mermaid: he was even humming. Francis’ heart thudded to see him so at ease (so well fucked) (fucked by _him_ ).

James shook back his glorious mane. It must’ve not reached its final state yet, because it was a wild, shiny burl around James’ smiling face. “We should do it again next time,” he said.

“I don’t live in London,” Francis confessed. Why did he ever decide to move? Normally, he would be restless to get back to Liverpool, to his cat, to his flat, to stroll in the shipyard, avoid the pubs—but to leave London now: he’d leave part of himself here.

“When are you next in town?” James asked, chipper. Somehow, probably through a magic trick, he managed to tame a lock of his hair into a perfect curl. Francis could’ve spent hours and hours just watching him do his hair.

“Haven’t made plans yet,” Francis said. He didn’t want to push it, should it just be a polite offer James didn’t really mean. He’d made that mistake in the past. Grabbing at any fleeting sign of affection. Not letting go.

James looked at him in the mirror, coiling another lustrous lock around his long finger. “You could stay here, if you wanted,” he said. “Or I can help look for a hotel, I know a guy, whatever you like—is Sunday all right?”

“Sunday is usually—fine.”

Were they talking about—next Sunday?

Did James want to see him again next week? Not some vague date to be settled, then forgotten; no _goodbye_ and _see you then_ ; they were making plans, as if it was evident they _would_ , as if James didn’t even think of another option.

Francis was at loss what it might all imply: a desire to date, a beginning of a relationship, or semi-regular sex?

James ran the brush through his hair; the dressing gown slipped, allowing a glimpse at his chest, where Francis had touched him, kissed him, fondled him; where he wanted to taste him again, no matter what agreement would be reached. Another hookup, maybe a date, maybe eternity: did it matter, if he got to see James again?

“Do you live in Northern Ireland?” James asked.

“Liverpool,” Francis said, his accent grating on the letters.

James beamed at him, as if it was somehow an achievement that Francis managed to be contained within England’s borders, not as close as Francis would’ve preferred, but not too far either. “Ah, I could just drop by,” James noted, and there was so much relief in that: how casual he made it sound, how easy, to just visit somebody, when Francis was caught up in the logistics: would James come next Sunday, or maybe earlier?

Did he offer that date because he thought Francis lived too far away?

Would he come during the weekdays? Francis only had three classes on Thursday—would James visit? Be content waiting in bed, playing with Francis’ cat while he corrected homework, glancing up time to time to marvel at James among his very own checkered flannel sheets, lovely and naked, eyes creasing up as he smiled back? It wouldn’t do to keep him locked away in the bedroom: they’d have to go to the sea, at night, when it was calm and dark, watch the white froth in the moonlight, listen to the distant call of seagulls.

“You can drop by anytime you want,” Francis managed to croak out.

Maybe it was just—that James liked him very much, and wanted to see more of him.

The rest would follow, surely.

* * *

**Francis Crozier** : Remember when you told me I was too clingy?

 **Thomas Blanky** : i said u were too quick to form deep emotional attachments

 **Thomas Blanky** : what have u done

 **Thomas Blanky** : oh god did u form a deep emotional attachment?

 **Francis Crozier** : Prepare to be introduced to someone even more clingy than me.

 **Thomas Blanky** : holy shit

* * *

Arriving to Jopson’s felt like landing on the Moon, although he’d only left a couple of hours ago. Everything felt altered: he was a changed man, welcoming the chill of the flat, the noise of the fashionably upset music Little had on in the background, Jopson’s urgent questions regarding tea.

“Ned’s parents sent us the _good stuff_ ,” he promised. He was wearing Little’s UCL hoodie from the morning. Little himself was in the kitchen, sniffing at a box of sencha with a pensive expression.

“Smells all right?” Francis asked as he threw his coat over a crate. He was in too good a mood to hang it.

“Smells like love and acceptance, sir,” Little said, a tad choked off.

“We’ll have to drink to that.”

“Biscuits, biscuits, coming through,” Jopson beeped, making his way to the oven. He had Francis’ coat with him on a hanger. Damn, the kid was _fast_. Francis took a seat by the kitchen table; noted with pride that it had been cleared of assignments. He knocked on the wood and smiled to himself.

“Thoughts?” Jopson asked, pulling a steaming tray out of the oven.

“Looks okay,” Little said.

Jopson repeated it faintly, “Looks okay.”

“Hey.” Little nudged him; when the self-critical set of Jopson’s jaw wouldn’t ease, he rubbed the small of his back. “Best damn jammie dodgers I’ve ever seen. Their beauty unknown to man. New chapter in the history of British bakery.”

“Piss off,” Jopson scoffed, fond.

Little turned to Francis, indicating the biscuits, “Sir, wouldn’t you say these jammie dodgers are the epitome of human achievement?”

“We have to immortalise it,” Francis agreed, and got his phone to take a picture. He noticed he had a new notification from one JamesFitzJ. He pulled up the camera app, wondering how the biscuits would fit into his belly which was so full of butterflies, how could they ever be sweeter than the goodbye kiss he and James had shared—damn, he was a goner. “Cheese,” he prompted.

“Jammieee,” Little grinned. Bloody hell: he’d have photographic evidence of Little smiling. Jopson held up the tray of crispy biscuits proudly, hugging his boyfriend. It was a cute picture. Francis glanced at the screen tenderly, gave them a thumbs-up; then he opened James’ message, unable to wait any longer.

 **JamesFitzJ** : made it to the gym! only 20 late lol

A video was attached.

Said video played on mute, and showed James poledancing. He had the high heel boots on. Not much else. The briefs barely qualified as underwear. The tank top’s arms were cut so low they showed off James’ entire ribcage, and his hair was up in a half-bun—which begged the question why he spent so much time perfecting his curls; standards, vanity—or maybe he just used it as an excuse to spend more time with Francis.

“Did I blink?” Little asked, peeking at the screen. It was too late to hide it. “Jesus Christ, is that—”

“Yes,” Francis said. He paused the video, his thumb hovering over James’ dignity. His face was still visible. So were the heels.

Jopson’s expression was unreadable. “God,” he said. “You’ve been married this entire time.”

“Now, hold on—”

“Congratulations, sir,” Little joined in seriously.

“There was no need to pretend you didn’t know him,” Jopson said. “But I respect your privacy, sir, I know how important it is to you. You can bring him over for tea next time, though.”

Francis watched him set down the jammie dodgers, wondering if he should explain. It would be like him, wouldn’t it, to keep his happiness hidden? To compartmentalise his life until it was unrecognisably fragmented; to keep everything close to his chest, but still at arm’s length.

That had never worked, had it?

“I will bring him to tea,” he promised. Didn’t miss Little fistbumping the air, or how Jopson rolled his eyes: _you better_.

* * *

**Captain_Grumpy** : It was good to see you too, Sophia. You might never know how happy this London trip made me. Glad we got closure. You deserve to move on, and I do, too.

 **Sophia_Cracroft** : Friends?

 **Captain_Grumpy** : Friends.

 **Sophia_Cracroft** : I have tix for Cats

 **Captain_Grumpy** : No.

James had already threatened to make him watch it, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for the beta work, support and suggestions! 💗
> 
> Most of the magic tricks described are either classics, or my own inventions (which I hope would be plausible); the card trick is based on [Vinny Grosso's trick](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRJTNJ_25W0)
> 
> Find me crying about the cold boys on [tumblr](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com); please consider [reblogging](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/189809706956/james-fitzjames-the-gentleman-swindlers-magical) or [retweeting](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1208761026562404354) the fic if you liked it ✨


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